


Expanding Anyway

by LinkWorshiper



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9221960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinkWorshiper/pseuds/LinkWorshiper
Summary: Every Christmas, Jimmy tells the truth. (Response to a prompt on Tumblr.)





	

 

Thomas Barrow was a liar. Jimmy knew this because he was also a liar, and there was very little that the pair of them didn’t already have in common. Such similarity was the cornerstone of their friendship, but there were other times in which it was just as much an obstacle between them.

For example, when Jimmy had first asked after Thomas’s birthday, Thomas had neatly averted any real answers by shrugging and staking a claim that he couldn’t be bothered about it. But Jimmy knew the falsehood the second he heard it, and was only affirmed in it when he overheard Thomas rudely telling Ivy that he couldn’t give a damn about her birthday when no one else gave a damn about his. His bitterness was a dead giveaway that the topic meant more to him than he would have ever dared admit.

Which spooled into another untruth, which circled around Ivy. Thomas resolutely claimed that he hadn’t minded Jimmy’s skirtchasing, and that he was happy to see Jimmy enjoying himself. Meanwhile, Jimmy insisted he was doing it for a laugh – for the joy of watching Alfred get so distraught over his inability to win something Jimmy could own with a mere click of his fingers.  “Trust me, when I’m in love – _truly_ – you’ll be the first to know,” Jimmy had insisted to Thomas so frequently, it had practically become a motto.

Except that the truth was that Thomas _would_ know, because Jimmy had been in love with Thomas since he’d first laid eyes on him on the day of his job interview.  But if he’d been careful then, he’d become twice as terrified of what would happen if anyone guessed the breadth of his romantic tastes. It had been a lovely game to play when it was just their secret, but bloody Alfred and his despicable aunt had seen to a sharp spike in paranoia about the real cost of his affections. The night he’d screamed Thomas out of his garret, he’d slammed the door and then promptly fell against it, trying to steady his breath and his tears of frustration that all his carefully laid plans had gone up in flames so quickly. If it had been discovered that Jimmy was just as guilty of salacious indiscretion as Thomas, things might have been just as catastrophic for Jimmy. So he kept his dreams in color, while parading through Downton Abbey with the empty flamboyance of a finely-bedecked peacock.

In that fashion, his interest in Ivy had been fueled purely out of malice. He had a personal vendetta against Alfred for chasing him out of Thomas’s arms, so he thought it only fair that he keep Ivy as good and far from Alfred as he could help. It still angered Jimmy when he thought of the terrible year he’d actively pushed Thomas away, hating how much it hurt both of them. Even when he had a plausible excuse to take up with Thomas again – after the fair incident – he’d still gone into it on pins and needles. He wondered if Thomas caught the clarity of his untruth when Thomas had asked for a friendly truce: Jimmy had sucked in a deep breath and smiled nervously as Thomas made his offer, and Jimmy had been filled with so much pleasure, he was certain it had been written across his face when he jumped after it. They’d been inseparable since – partners in crime and allies against a common enemy.

Unfortunately for Thomas, he couldn’t divert Jimmy’s resolute intention to shower him with gifts. If it couldn’t be on a birthday, there was still at least Christmas, which even the most Scrooge-like behavior couldn’t snuff out. And though they spent the holiday together as friends, Jimmy had worried anything he would give to Thomas would be too obviously affectionate, he’d since hit a stride in thoughtful, yet genial presents, which Thomas always happily accepted despite himself. The soft, secret smile that only Jimmy ever seemed to catch always manifested on Thomas’s face as he opened Jimmy’s parcels – which only did to heighten Jimmy’s suspicion that there was a lot left unsaid.

Not that Jimmy was any better. He continued to lie and say he was in love with Ivy, all the while craving such a relationship with Thomas. He often talked to himself about it – if only for moral support – and resolutely reminded himself that no one else needed to know so long as he could remain at Thomas’s side with each passing Yuletide. A small part of him felt guilty about the whole thing, but he had his priorities in order. Friendship allowed Jimmy to negotiate the finer points of his companionship with the underbutler in relative safety, and for a time, that was sufficient.

What he couldn’t manage was the abrupt rewrite in the plot after Lady Anstruther had crashlanded at Downton. She’d always been pushy, and at one time, a younger Jimmy was happy to play along for the sake of favoritism and treats. But the war had changed him into a much more jaded creature. It disgusted him when he realized she’d connived to appear at Downton’s doorstep like a reckless dog owner in search of her liberated pet. He’d been trapped and somewhat desperate when he caved in to visit her on _that_ night. Damned if he’d avoided her and allowed her to whisper the truth of Jimmy’s youthful indiscretions to Mr. Carson, damned if he fell between the sheets and wounded Thomas all over again.  When he’d left Downton the next morning, he’d very nearly cried at the loss of a family he’d come to love despite himself. He told Thomas he’d write….

He’d lied.

But as the Christmas spirit began to descend upon the winter of 1927, coming in all manner of wreaths and ribbon and tree trimmings for the London home he now served in, Jimmy found himself experiencing a dissatisfaction with the duplicitous life he’d been leading. Every bow he tied, every garland he hung, every candle lit, only served to remind Jimmy of the one thing he _really_ wanted every year. It came dressed in mittens and scarves more often than not, but it existed only in his memory now. For the last few years, as the Yuletide came and went, he wanted only one kiss – but not from one of airheaded maids that tripped over themselves to even look at him, but the one he’d pretended to forget. The more he thought about it, the more obsessed by the idea he became. He even went so far as to steal a sprig of mistletoe to keep in his bedroom, staring at it like it was a source of inspiration until he fell asleep each night.

He wished he was able cope with his new life despite his own willfulness. Often, he battled the desire to just phone Thomas and say all the things he was always on the cusp of – things it had taken him yet another year to remember and then lose in a muddle. The tedium of service and the distance between London and Yorkshire had dragged Jimmy into a routine that made him forget the time. He wished he could simply ignore his festering heart – though he never came close despite his best efforts. It would be another year of self-imposed isolation that ended in vacant missives and unsent envelopes.

That was going to end this year, he resolved – just as he did every year. Writing was difficult for a proud man like him, for he often penned letters without thinking and ended up confessing things to Thomas’s ghost that colored him as vulnerable and sentimental. He’d thought perhaps he’d try just boxing up a good gift for Thomas, certain that the right item was worth more words than he was ever capable of. And yet, he refused to simply gift Thomas with something obvious, like a pocket watch, or a toy train that was so much like the one Thomas happily set up each year for Master George. He envisioned that same soft smile upon Thomas’s lips when he opened such an unexpected parcel, though the impossible standard of quality against which he was measuring all the little windup toys he knew Thomas enjoyed was still unclear. Not that it mattered: inevitably, he’d panic that Thomas had probably moved on, and that he probably considered Jimmy very infrequently, and that any sort of communication would be unappreciated – _probably_. Usually, he’d end his trips in the pub, where he’d moodily slug pint after pint as he scoured his brain for ideas. He’d just end up barely sober enough to stumble back to the house, but it was strangely preferable to him: at least when he was three sheets to the wind, it all hurt less.

One night, after stumbling home in just such a state, he slipped back into his tiny room in the servants’ quarters with his head on fire. Cigarette smoke clung to his clothing, which he lazily shed in pieces as he shuffled across the floor, determined to sit at his desk and collect his thoughts. He often justified his lack of correspondence with Thomas on time, but the last week had spiraled into an even worse ennui of endless days, and the excuse seemed poor. A blank page materialized in his hands, rustling upon his desktop as he unscrewed his only nice pen and touched the leaky nib to the surface. He carefully transcribed the date, and then…

_Tap, tap, tap…._

A splotch of ink began to bleed into the page as he cradled his head and attempted to unravel his knotted thoughts. A squiggle wobbled out of the ink stain, and then a downward swoop to transform it into a regal ‘T’. It didn’t take long for the looping ‘h’, followed by an illegible _‘omas’_ paraded behind, and images of the life he’d left behind began to catch in his mind. How he wished that it was easier to sort his feelings, constantly stuck between sensibility and a heartbeat.

_I love you,_ Jimmy reminded himself as Thomas’s name gleamed with an inky sheen. _I love you, but I need another minute to myself – another year alone to sort meself out and that…._

He tried to battle the notion by drafting a note about something else entirely, but it was no use. Every element about Thomas was apparent in all Jimmy touched, be it a burning cigarette, a pint of ale, or even the pomade he streaked through his hair every morning. Frustrated, he snatched up the loose leaf and crushed it with a tight fist. Banging the heel of his hand against the desktop, he let out a roar of irritation and flung the wad of paper across the room. It bounced harmlessly off his flatcap, which was perched atop his coat stand, and then dropped to the floor like a pigeon shot out of the sky.

Another page slid across the desk and earned the same badge of ink that the previous one had. Jimmy held his aching head, which was sick with inebriation. He drew a knotted cluster of lines in the upper corner of the page, and then dragged the nib down along the edge until the ink ran splotchy. Leaning back, he twisted his pen to refill the reservoir, absently staring up at the ceiling. This was becoming a bit of a ritual for him – one in which he tried to reconcile his true feelings for Thomas and all the fears that dictated so much of Jimmy’s natural inclinations. He decided he would go through with it, certain it would end just as it always did – with tears and a sleepless night.

He began to write.

_I wake up every morning thinking of you. Dark clouds are heavy on my shoulders every day in a way that is altogether strange to me. I suppose I’ve never been properly heartbroken before. And yet, the boundaries of my feelings continue to expand with each passing breath. So why is love still so hard to say?_

Here, he stopped, chewing the cap of his pen as he stared at the words he’d just scribbled. They weren’t much different from other things he’d tried and failed to send along to Thomas. But staring at it, he was struck with an overwhelming confusion as to why Thomas had every loved him in the first place. He was a walking contradiction, full of flaws and unhappy details that made him prickly and impossible to hold. Yet Thomas had been waiting for him at the bottom of Jimmy’s teetering ladder, arms wide and ready to catch him whenever he slipped. This far along the line, Jimmy wondered if hanging on for Thomas had turned him suicidal and mad.

_I am writing this to shine a light of hope into my life. You hardly misread my meaning when we met, but it was me who was the coward. It’s killing me to think I’ve been discarded just because it seemed like I meant you harm. But by God, Thomas, I never ever wanted to hurt you. You’re the only person who has ever seen who is really Jimmy Kent without reeling in disgust._

_I haven’t any romantic lines, but it’s Christmas time (and at Christmas –_

Jimmy paused in his writing in order to take in an enormous breath, summoning bravery to let him coast easily along such an enormous wave of emotion. The pen was leaking another telltale puddle of ink upon his last full stop.

_– you tell the truth), so I thought I’d just… check._

Just penning the words caused an ebb and flow of sweet emotions to drown him. He would have run into the night and straight for Yorkshire if he thought he could make it. In that moment, there was only one place he needed to be – and only one thing he needed to say.

_Because I miss you and I need you – I do._

Then he scrawled his personal mark at the bottom of the page and dropped the pen alongside it as if he had just discarded a pistol at the end of a duel. His heart was pounding in his chest with equal vigor, though he thought it sounded hollow without Thomas’s pulse moving through him at the same time. He wished he had Thomas there – someone to love in the middle of the day and when the stakes were at their most perilous.

“Stop bein’ such a prize fool,” Jimmy scolded himself with a scowl. He abruptly took the paper and folded it in half so he wouldn’t have to look at his own idiocy. He fished a blank envelope out of a drawer and crammed the letter inside. He licked the flap and then flipped it over, poising his pen for the final flourish. Writing out Downton’s address and adhering a stamp was the furthest his letters to Thomas ever got out the door.

Pulling open another drawer, Jimmy removed a small packet of other sealed envelopes and laid it next to his new missive. There were six in total, all of which were also addressed to Thomas and decorated with a seasonal stamp that indicated just when Jimmy had written each. Jimmy carefully untied the twine that held the lot of them together and added Christmas 1927 to the collection. It was like he was taking one step closer and two steps backwards with every love letter he kept hidden in his desk.

“Where they’re _safe_ ,” Jimmy emphasized to himself, staring over at the frosty dormer window. Outside, a soft flurry of snow had begun to waft through the London haze. It wasn’t long before such a nostalgic image brought his thoughts flying back to Thomas. He could remember him wrapped in his elegant long coat, scarf and gloves crystalized with freshly melted snowflakes upon the wool. In Jimmy’s mind, Thomas had been standing in the frost, waiting for him alone. Again, he fretted whether Thomas still thought of him – if he still wanted him, or if he’d since been lost in the icy weather.

With a mysteriously damp eye, Jimmy wondered why safety had to be so _miserable_.

An unnamed force descended upon him, perhaps coasting into the garret on a cold draft at the window. Jimmy’s soul flickered from charcoal to ivory, leading his hand to hover over Thomas’s letters with a trembling desire.

“It’s Christmas,” he announced to the room, palm descending upon the letters like their touch would hold the overwhelming change that was coursing through him. “It’s Christmas, and Christmas is for _truth_ ,” he repeated.

Surging with a bravery that had never before touched him, Jimmy flew across the room, snatching his hat from the stand and his crumpled jacket from the floor. Then he hurried back to his desk, collecting the entire run of envelopes and stuffing them into a pocket. He ran to the door, damning the staff’s curfew as he burst into the dark hall. He skipped down the winding stairs two at a time, dashed through the kitchens and out into the delivery yard behind the house. The cold slapped his cheeks rosy within two second of being outside, but he barely felt the shock.

“I’m comin’ for you, Thomas,” he wheezed again and again. The evergreen garlands that draped the city were slowly collecting a thin patina of snow. The pavement beneath his slick shoes was icy, but it didn’t inspire him to dull his speed in the slightest. To him, the weather was inviting and warm, heating the blood in his very veins.

A post box appeared in the nighttime mist, beckoning Jimmy with its merry red. He sunk a hand into his coat, gripping the worn edges of his paper heart. He could practically feel the heat emanating from within.  

“Thomas, I’m _comin_ ’!”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this! Sorry it's a bit later than I'd hoped, but I technically wrote it on the Twelfth Day of Christmas, so there. And I hope you also caught the little reference to Love Actually as well :)


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